Bullet Proof
by notimefortomorrow
Summary: There was nothing left for him. Alone, he thought he was done with this tiring thing called living. But if someone thought he was deserving of a second chance, then he would show them just how wrong they were. And this time he would be bullet proof.
1. Been There, Done That

_Disclaimer: _I do not claim ownership over any of the characters created by the makers of Dragon Ball Z or Dragon Ball GT. I claim property of the OCs of the story only, who were made for the sole purpose of this work.

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><p><em>Set:<em> Some time after the Buu Saga. May take place later during GT saga as well.

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><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

Been There, Done That

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><p>He didn't remember much.<p>

He remembered darkness and silence; a void where his senses should have been in which he floated empty and bodiless, for the first time without motive or drive. For the first time in what seemed like a long time where he hadn't felt the need to follow an order or command, or seek out a purpose even he did not understand.

And then he awoke, as if this emptiness had been a blessed dream and reality sucked him back with a greedy vengeance. He knelt there on the kai blasted warzone where he had fought the Z Fighters and Cell, feeling the broken earth on his knees through the worn holes in his jeans. His fingers curled in his shredded gloves, sinking into the soft, parched dirt.

Why?

After all he had done; after all of the pain he had caused, was his punishment to experience the bliss of peace, only to be returned to this place where the memories of his past could haunt him?

Desolate as the landscape that surrounded him; empty as the tundra he occupied. No Dr. Gero; No Dr. Myuu; No Number Eighteen.

Number Seventeen gathered himself to his feet, and his gaze swept over the place that had been home to his last days as a slave to a mastermind of Hell.

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><p>Taji knelt by the bed roll, laying the damp towel gently on his sister's forehead to cool the heat that seemed to make her head throb beneath his touch. The light from the single swaying bulb overhead flickered on and off as it struggled to add some warmth to her pale lips.<p>

"Taji," she breathed, her trembling fingers closing on his. "It's okay. You need to get to work now." His blue eyes closed for a moment, and he brushed a lock of her golden brown hair behind her ear. It was matted from sweat and dirt, and stuck to her head where he pushed it.

"Fine, but be safe while I'm gone, alright?" Taji pulled the ragged quilt over her shuddering chest to cover the rising goose bumps on her naked arms. "I'll be back soon." She nodded, and the movement made the graying quilt shudder like the down feathers of a gosling.

He stood and slipped out through the curtain that was strung in the frame of their front door. It was raining in the city, the deep gray clouds grumbling overhead, and the foul smelling water that collected in the potholes of the street soaked through the holes in his sneakers and made his socks squelch with each step.

"Hey, man!" Arnold caught sight of him from where he stood across the street by a broken light post, and he gave a quick wave for him to join. Taji glanced across the roadway before jogging across, his yellow hair bouncing with his footsteps as he splashed through what was left of the asphalt street and exchanged a clap on the shoulder with Arnold. "What's up, Taj?"

"I'm running low on cash. Gotta make a round soon," Taji offered, hunching his shoulders against the rain as he pushed his hands into the pocket of his hoodie.

"Ellie doesn't still think that you work at the Laundromat, does she?" Arnold asked, squinting suspiciously at his lighter skinned comrade. Taji winced, and Arnold's expression darkened. "Man! You've _got_ to tell her. She's gunna find out sooner or later."

"Yah, I know." Taji clapped his hand over the lump in his back pocket, feeling the warmth of the metal hand gun against his skin—a savage sort of heat. He had told Ellie that he carried it for protection, and she had believed him; had believed that their money came from an honest five dollar an hour job at the broken down laundry building amongst the spin cycles and the washed out clothing. "I should go."

"Ain't no way you're ever going to find a schmuck dumb enough to walk in the rain at night, Taj." Taji waved Arnold away as he set off down the street.

"It's just a mist. There'll be someone," Taji offered.

"Well, don't forget the meeting place tonight. The Collectors are coming this time, so be there!" Arnold called. Taji winced at his raised voice, but it didn't seem to matter if the neighborhood heard him anyways. There wasn't a soul in the forgotten section of the city that wasn't under the thumb of The Collectors or a target for them.

"Whatever," Taji mumbled, and tried his best to lose himself in the winding streets of the city.

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><p>"Stop right there, mister."<p>

Number Seventeen stopped in his tracks, though certainly not because the command was an effective one. The voice was young, and certainly not harsh enough to carry much threat. A youth with a shock of golden hair narrowed his blue eyes at the cyborg, and for a moment Seventeen thought that perhaps he had stumbled across one of the infamous Saiyans that he sought.

"Fancy rifle you got there," quipped the young man. He held a hand gun level at Seventeen, but the experience with which he shouldered the small weapon left the target unfazed. This was no Saiyan. Saiyans did not carry guns.

"So it is," Seventeen offered, setting the butt of the rifle on the asphalt and leaning recklessly on the muzzle.

"Drop it and kick it over here," the boy demanded. The cyborg hesitated a moment, then curiously tilted his hand, and his gloved fingers retracted from the barrel. It clattered noisily onto the uneven pavement of the small alleyway, making the young thug squint at him. Seventeen tapped the muzzle of the gun with his shoe, sending it spinning lightly towards him. "Now hand over what you've got."

"I don't have anything," he answered. The cyborg pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans, lifting back the blue coat comfortably. He shrugged helplessly, and the boy jerked his gun hand at him angrily.

"Look, I'm not kidding. Hand over what you have and I won't shoot," the kid snapped. He took a step forward, as though this would help to enunciate his point. Seventeen lingered in his spot, the cold blue of his eyes sweeping over the boy, sizing him up.

"You wouldn't find anything on me if you shot anymore than if I handed it over willingly." Seventeen paused, and a smile touched his lips. "Though it could be interesting to argue how I would hand over 'nothing'," he offered.

"Oh, shut up," the boy groaned, leaning down to swipe up the rifle. "Just stay there until I'm gone, alright?" He took a few steps back, holstering the handgun in his back pocket, before turning away and darting out of the alleyway. Seventeen's smile slipped away.

"I like that gun," he murmured. He powered up just enough to float up from the alleyway and land gently atop the roof of one of the dilapidated buildings, and watched from where he stood as the boy slipped through the intricate network of structures.

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><p>Taji put his weight against the soggy door and pushed it open. The top hinge was long since rusted out, and the cracked wooden bottom ground against the dirty cement floor as he shoved it shut behind him. The peeling wooden panel rattled at it shook with the force of the wind outside<p>

The dank house smelled of mold and cigarette smoke, and the soft drip of water echoed in the room from where it leaked through a collapsed section of the roof. The poor patch job barely held up to the rain, and the blue tarp sagged beneath a collection of water.

Taji shuffled through the debris and pushed through a moth eaten curtain into what had once been a living room. The carpet had been torn up to leave only bare cement where spider webs of cracks interlaced the concrete. A handful of men sat at a table, drinking and smoking, gambling and handling their guns.

He ignored these men, just as these men thankfully ignored him, and knocked lightly on the door to the bedroom before slipping inside.

The bedroom was poorly lit, just like the rest of the house, but here was where the gathering was taking place. Arnold glanced up from the far side of the room, tipping his chin up at him in greeting before looking back to the man who stood in the center of a semicircle of worn out folks, the glowing tip of the boss's cigarette like a molten eye in the muted lighting.

"You're late," the boss Geno griped, pulling his cigarette out from between his lips. He blew the smoke out in a slow grey curl, not bothering to turn his head so that it clouded the faces of the men surrounding him.

"Sorry, sir," Taji offered. The end of the boss's cigarette was worn where he chewed on it. Taji found himself looking at this, because he couldn't manage to look Geno in the eye.

"We're almost done here, anyways. Just a little more business to wrap up," the boss growled. He crushed the tip of his cigarette onto the table that separated him and the small crowd. The rest of the wooden surface was loaded with an assortment of stuff: jewelry, money, coats, but the pull tonight was painfully sad. "What did you bring, Taji?"

He swallowed and stepped forward, laying the rifle on the table carefully before taking a step back. The boss stared at it for a moment before snatching it from the table and lifting it up.

"_This_?" The boss's dark eyes swept up to Taji. "This is a hunting rifle, Taji. What the fuck are you trying to pull here? This is _worthless_." He slammed it back down on the table, making the gathering jump, as though they expected it would fire at one of them. Geno made his way around the table. "Who do you think you are, you worthless piece of-"

The door slammed open behind Taji, the noisy clattering swallowing whatever the boss had been saying. Geno's dark eyes glinted in the light that came through the doorway, and his nose wrinkled as his lips pulled back in a sneer. "Who are you?" he snapped.

"I was just cruising the neighborhood. Thought this looked like a fine place to stop."

The boss narrowed his eyes, and the look was dangerous on him—an animal ready to leap. Somehow the voice sounded familiar—amused by the situation in a way that it shouldn't be—but Taji could not tear his eyes away from the image of boss Geno, raising his chin to bare his throat threateningly to the stranger in the doorway.

"What are you doing here?" The boss asked, his voice dropped to a hoarse growl.. Taji managed to turn, stepping aside so that he no longer stood between the tension mounting between the two speakers. And there he stood—the man he had robbed—leaning casually on the door frame, his cold blue eyes alive in the darkness.

"I came to get my gun back," he said.

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><p><em>Note: <em>I hope you guys enjoyed the first chapter! If you liked it or have any comments, please leave a review!


	2. Sink into the Grave

_Disclaimer: _I do not claim ownership over any of the characters created by the makers of Dragon Ball Z or Dragon Ball GT. I claim property of the OCs of the story only, who were made for the sole purpose of this work.

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><p><em>Set:<em> Some time after the Buu Saga. May take place later during GT saga as well.

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><p><em>Note:<em> The rating of this story may go up in future chapters.

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><p><strong>Chapter Two<strong>

Sink into the Grave

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><p><em>I came to get my gun back.<em>

The very words seemed to freeze the atmosphere, turning Taji's world as cold as the look in the stranger's eyes.

"_Your _gun?" Boss Geno spat back as though he found the taste of what had been said unpleasant. "Your gun…" he repeated. Geno turned his back to the stranger, ambling patiently to the table. He dropped a hand on the rifle that had been carelessly thrown into the pile of goods, and the bare pads of his fingers slid along the long barrel thoughtfully as he hefted it in his grasp.

The stranger's gaze drifted carefully from Geno to Taji, lingering on him for too long, until Taji felt the urge to swallow the bitter taste welling up in his mouth.

"Is this it?" Geno asked, prompting the attention of the both of them to return. The stranger straightened from where he was leaning against the frame of the door, a wolf that had caught sight of the prize, and watched as the boss cradled the weapon in his arms.

"It is." If he was bothered that the muzzle of the firearm pointed at his exposed chest, he did not show it. Taji had to hand it to him—he sure knew how to bluff. Could it be that he had robbed an officer? A man of the law that was used to slinging his weight around the rough lot gathered around him now, staring like a flock of carnivorous raptors? The stranger took a step forward and his hand uncurled, palm up to Geno. The boss lifted a brow, and his finger slipped over the trigger, depressing it almost casually. The rifle kicked in his hands, cracking so loudly in the small room that the unsuspecting occupants jumped with a start.

Taji felt his heart hammering in his chest. The dim roar of the lingering shot deafened him, clogging his ears with its silent noise. But when the smoke cleared, so to speak, the stranger stood there, his palm curled into a tight fist in front of him, as though he meant to shake it angrily at the man who had shot him.

"What the?" Geno snapped. "Blanks!" The boss threw the gun to the side with a clatter, and it smacked against the feet of the gathering. Geno pushed his hand into his back pocket to reach the heat he stashed there, and his dark eyes found Taji, glittering in the dimness of the room accusingly.

But Taji's eyes were riveted to the stranger's hand, and as his fingers uncurled and his hand upturned to show the flat of his palm to Geno, it seemed as though only he caught sight of the silver glitter of a smooth disc tumbling to the ground with a gentle tinkle. The bullet landed on the floor with the sound of loose change.

This man was bullet proof.

A blaring light shattered the darkness of the room, burning Taji's retinas. The force of the light lifted him from his feet, and he felt the floor quaking against his back. The house heaved beneath him—an unsettled beast in the midst of the sodden slums, attempting to rise from its broken slumber. The skin of his face tingled with the burning energy of it, the pain prickling as though every cell had simultaneously fallen to sleep, only to be reawaken with such a suddenness as to spring agony into every pulse of blood that seeped under his skin.

And then the feeling, like the room had filled to capacity and were about to explode with the pressing force of it, vanished with a surge, as though being sucked away into a vacuum of space that pulled him towards one centrifugal point.

The stranger.

Taji rolled onto his side, blinking to try to recover his vision. The back wall of the house had vanished into a crumbling ruin and the cold rain dribbled into what remained of the bedroom. The man stooped to retrieve his rifle, strands of black hair falling to hide his face. He did not stop to heed the moans of the gathering that lay scattered on either side of the room, parted like Moses and the Red Sea from the force of the blast. Taji pushed himself to his feet and staggered after him, and the cold night air stung his raw cheeks.

"Wait," Taji managed. His desire to stop the man surprised even him—like the rabbit who stopped to admire the beauty of the wolf. The stranger was a bad dream—a nightmare that was better left to vanish back into the dank depths of the city.

A nightmare that had made Geno and his table of trinkets vanish into the night. The stranger glanced at him over his shoulder, if only briefly, before picking his way delicately through the rubble of the room and setting off into the city streets. Taji hobbled to the crumbling wall and paused. He turned his blue eyes back to his comrades, only just managing to pull themselves together. Arnold was kneeling, helping James up, but his dark eyes were on Taji, glittering with a questioning indictment the likes of which Geno had worn only moments ago.

Taji turned away, and slid down the rubble into the street, disappearing after the stranger into the dark.

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><p>"Why are you following me?" The words were quiet and curious, not at all the threat that he had expected them to be.<p>

Taji stopped, his soaked sneakers rooted to the asphalt. The stranger paused in front of him, his cold blue eyes watching over his shoulder, heedless to the rain that fell on the both of them. Beads of water dripped from Taji's hair, staining it darker with its weight, and the feel of the tiny droplets sliding down his scalp rose goose flesh on his arms.

He stood there, as though he had become a part of the very roadway of the city. His tongue felt swollen in his mouth, too thick to speak around and offer an excuse. Seventeen turned towards Taji, jerking his head slightly to pantomime the question; reiterating it without using his voice. His black hair was slick with water and stuck to his neck and face; a stark contrast against his pale skin.

"Why did you follow me?" Taji could only just breathe the words, and the cyborg set the butt of the rifle to the ground, leaning against it as he had done the first moment their paths had crossed.

"Curiosity." Seventeen reached up to fix the orange bandanna around his neck, pushing it negligibly, as though he needed something to do with his idle hands.

"What?" Taji spat the words, taking a step towards the stranger. But if Seventeen had been unenthused by Boss Geno's performance, then the threat of Taji could not have ever registered as one.

"Curiosity," Seventeen repeated. Taji flinched as he picked up the rifle and dropped it languidly over his shoulder. It was an action that he could not have helped, and yet he regretted it when he caught the smallest twitch lift the corner of the man's mouth in response.

"What did you use?" Taji snapped. The stranger's face remained impassive—unamused and unanswering. "C4? Semtex? How did you do that?" Finally some recognition seemed to dawn on the man's face, and he tilted his chin to the side, watching Taji from the corner of his blue eyes.

"It was energy." The silence between them was interrupted only by the trickle of the rain, which was beginning to patter against the broken pavement faster and harder. It didn't seem possible that anyone could simply will such power into existence. But then, what else about the man had been simply explained away? His knack for catching projectiles and flattening them in one crushing grip? His ability to seemingly concentrate an explosion at will? Even his lame excuses for following Taji to the hideout?

Seventeen's gaze broke long enough for him to peer up at the dark sky, then return to the boy standing across from me. "How about we get out of the rain, and then maybe I'll tell you a bit more about it." The offer seemed a moot point, as the stranger turned away before he had even finished speaking.

"Wait." Taji's voice sounded alien to him—as much a stranger as the one who had given the unique offer. It was a boy who was curious; one with questions. When in his life had he ever been brave enough to ask questions from the ones who mattered? And yet here the words formed, as though against his will. "Why would I follow you? After what you did? Why?"

Seventeen did not look at him when he spoke.

"Curiosity."

It seemed as good a reason as any to Taji.

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><p><em>Note: <em>My apologies for the length of time that it took me to get this chapter out. I hope that you guys enjoyed it and will review with to leave me any comments or questions that you had!


	3. Bad Company

_Disclaimer: _I do not claim ownership over any of the characters created by the makers of Dragon Ball Z or Dragon Ball GT. I claim property of the OCs of the story only, who were made for the sole purpose of this work.

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><p><em>Set:<em> Some time after the Buu Saga. May take place later during GT saga as well.

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><p><em>WARNING:<em> The rating of this story will likely go up for future chapters.

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><p><strong>Chapter Three<strong>

Bad Company

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><p>The open air factory room smelled of mold and wet dirt. The high arched walls with their rusted metal beams were like the skeleton of some great beast, whose body had long ago been abandoned to the decay of the urban jungle.<p>

"What's your name?" The stranger's voice startled him out of the momentary reverie, and he glanced up from the towering stacks of boxes that occupied the lofty room. The man stood at the edge of a carefully arranged circle of the crates, tugging absently at the fingertips of his glove.

Taji paused at a stack of heavy crates, his fingers brushing over the faded black paint labels that had soaked into the gross grain of the wood.

"Does it matter?" Taji sniffed. He followed at a distance, lingering at the edge of the circle, his blue eyes on a pit dug in the center of the circle, blackened from the use of many fires.

"It's what most people do, isn't it?" The stranger leaned his rifled up against the crates before taking a seat beside it on the wooden surface. His black hair still stuck to the sides of his face, and in the blue glow of the moonlight that pressed through the broken slats of the ceiling, he seemed to belong to the gritty world of the wild that had reclaimed the old factory.

He hesitated. He hesitated in the same way that one hesitates to see a wildcat perched in the lofty branches of the treetops, unsure of whether it was interested in you as a meal or merely as a curious plaything to watch.

"It's Taji." He finally answered. "And you're not exactly 'most people'." He pushed at his damp hair, smoothing it roughly back against his scalp and out of his eyes. "Who are you, anyways?"

He vacillated at the outskirts of the man's circle before setting precariously on the edge of the farthest crate—an animal prepped for flight, should it be needed.

"Seventeen." The stranger shifted, using the toe of his shoes to pull them off. They dropped to the dusty floor as the man folded his legs up on the box, and Taji took a moment to admire the bold choice of his lime green socks.

Definitely not what would have been his first pick in the morning.

"No, what's you _name_?"

"Seventeen," the man persisted.

"You're telling me that your _name_ is 'Seventeen'?" The words came out more hostile than Taji intended them to be. The stranger tilted his head slightly, and a curious smile touched the edge of his mouth. His blue eyes flickered away from the human for a brief moment—past him—and then back.

"Yes."

No sooner had the word left his mouth than Taji felt something tighten over his neck, cutting off his supply of air and lifting him from his seat on the crate. He struggled, and although his lithe frame bucked against the solid wall behind him, he couldn't break the hold. His vision blurred, but still he could see Seventeen perched on the wood crate, wearing a mildly amused expression.

And then a figure stepped between them, blocking his view.

Taji had heard once that suffocation was an agonizingly slow death. There were no truer words, but there was the reprieve that, at least, the confusion of dying this way relieved him of the agony of a more painful death.

The world swam, and Taji was distracted by the dots that burst in his eyes. His arms felt heavy, as though the very air had become treacle that he struggled to move through; that he sucked into his lungs and clogged it. Screams exploded in the air, but they sounded faint to his ears, as though someone had clogged them with cotton..

The dusty cold floor slammed him back into consciousness, and his blue eyes flew open. Taji blinked a few times and shook his head, trying to keep the world from tilting sickeningly. There were fingers pulling at his clothes, dragging him off of the floor; and the cold muzzle of a gun pressed under his chin, forcing his head higher than was comfortable.

"How could you do this, Taj?" Arnold's face, twisted into a furious scowl, his white teeth bared and standing out against his dark skin. His eyes were wild and angry, vivid in the dark night. "The boss is dead. Half of the guys are dead. I swear, we'll make you pay for this."

"Arnold. Please, listen." Taji's fingers curled over his friends, and he pulled at them.

"No! _You_ listen! You're going to die, Taji. The gang already decided it. But not before they make you pay for what happened. And they _will_ make you pay-"

Arnold was yanked back so suddenly that his grip was torn from Taji. A pair of pale hands were clapped onto either side of his head, and in a sharp movement, it jerked to the side with a neat and simple crack, bending to the side farther than was possible. His eyes still stared at Taji, frozen open and furious as his body crumpled to the floor, joining the handful of companions that had followed him to what should have been an empty warehouse.

Seventeen stepped neatly over the corpse, and his gloved hand pulled at Taji's shirt, grasping a fistful of the fabric and pushing him easily up against the stack of crates behind him.

"You're right," Seventeen breathed, and the warmth of his breath brushed against the bare skin of Taji's neck. "I'm not most people." The human shuddered, and though the heat of the man lingered so close to him, he felt goose bumps rising on his arms, and a cold knot of dread pushed against his spine.

The fingers curled in the throat of his collar slide away, brushing for a lingering moment against the fabric as Seventeen stepped back. Without the support to hold him up, his legs nearly failed him, and Taji slammed a hand against the pile of crates to hold himself up.

"Wait," he snapped. For a moment he could not see where the stranger had gone. Then Seventeen reappeared, standing silhouetted in the doorway, the moonlight against his back darkening the features of his face—all but for the cold blue eyes that lingered on him for only a moment. "What are you?" The breathless words released in the fog of the night air, curling in a smoky cloud in front of his face.

The man turned away from him then, his shoes clutched in one hand, his rifle slung over his shoulder, and walked through the door as painfully nonchalant as he had walked in.

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><p><em>Note:<em> If you enjoyed this chapter, please read and review! I love to hear the comments of my readers!


	4. The Path of Least Resistance

_Disclaimer: _I do not claim ownership over any of the characters created by the makers of Dragon Ball Z or Dragon Ball GT. I claim property of the OCs of the story only, who were made for the sole purpose of this work.

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><p><em>Set:<em> Some time after the Buu Saga. May take place later during GT saga as well.

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><p><em>Note:<em> As a heads up, I pushed the rating of the story up for this chapter. A fair warning to my readers that it is a chapter that deals with sensitive, possibly traumatic information.

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><p><strong>Chapter Four<br>**

The Path of Least Resistance

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><p>He sat on one of the heavy crates, and the lid creaked under his weight. They were assembled, hunched in the shadows, like unapproachable animals waiting in the dark—the bent, broken figures of his former companions. The chill of the night air crept into his damp clothes, seeping between the threads and buttons and biting at his bones until he felt he was cold enough to join them in their stillness.<p>

They would not have expected a burial. Many of the men in the gang did not even believe in religion. They lived by nothing more than a code that, if they were smart enough, strong enough, fast enough, then they could see another day.

Only they weren't, this time.

His gaze finally settled on Arnold, his body stretched out at his feet. Were it not for the angled twist of his neck and the expression he still wore, frozen in time, then he might have been relaxing, reclined on the dusty floor as he had so many nights before then.

His face brought with it the memory of what he had said as he died. What could the gang do to him that they had not already done? What could they take that they hadn't already taken? Taji turned away from the face of his friend and watched the skies as the thin veil of rainclouds finally tore apart, leaving an empty patch of darkness where the stars struggled to shine.

The moon finally broke through the clouds, its pale blue glow casting fuzzy shadows where its light could not touch. It was as pale and cold as the world that surrounded it, but still it shone beautifully.

Taji stood from his makeshift seat and knelt by Arnold's body, prying at the frozen fingers until they gave way, and the handgun his friend had carried rested in his hands. He cast a final glance at the stranger's dismal hiding place before he left it behind him for good.

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><p>His shoes were soaked from the rain-filled trudge to the factory, making each step feel heavier than the last. Before long, what little sky had found its way through the clouds was soon lost again, and a faint mist had begun to fall. The moon still shone, setting those clouds that stood in front of it alight like a projection screen.<p>

What had been acres of land being reclaimed by the backwoods that surrounded the city soon returned to a wilderness of broken buildings, where the jackals that remained fought over every meager scrap they could find. But Arnold's gun still rested in the palm of his hand, his fingers loose over the trigger.

There were some cracks in the distance, like the sound of a bull whip, the shattering of a glass bottle a block away, the crunch of broken gravel under his sodden shoes. Taji exhaled a breath of frozen air and breathed in the corruption that was the city—his home.

He climbed the steps that led to his home carefully. The wind had finally ripped down the tattered curtain that served to separate his world from the rest of it.

"Ellie, I'm back." He knelt to retrieve it and set it aside on the wobbly table that stood beside the door. It would need repair later. "Ellie? Are you awake?" Taji reached up for the single light bulb that swayed with the breeze overhead. His fingers curled over the chain and tugged it gently. The bulb shed its feeble light onto the rough corners of the hovel: over the mat of blankets where Taji slept, the lone table by the door where he had set the curtain, over the desk where they kept the single faded print page of the newspaper that held their parents' mortuary.

And over Ellie's empty bed.

The blood rushed into his ears, gushing over him like a wave in the sea. "Ellie?" He couldn't hear himself speak over the sound of his heart beating as he stormed into the empty kitchen and slammed open the door to the bathroom.

Ellie didn't leave the house; not for any reason. There was only one place she could have gone.

Taji's fingers tightened over the handgun as he swept through the crooked door frame, down the cracked cement steps and out into the streets of that broken wilderness.

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><p>His perch was empty tonight, as had been all of the other perches he had thought to occupy in a past life—a life that was all but forgotten by everyone but himself. His fingers slid over the smooth stone wall of the church, and the century old grime left tracks on his stained gloves.<p>

How long had it been since he had spoken with his sister? When would come the day that he could face them and know that he wasn't the threat he knew himself to be; that she insisted he wasn't? Unlike her, he had nothing to tether him to a single spot.

It was a weakness, that desire of hers; that want to have a place to call your own.

He stared into the glass pane of the church window, reflecting the heavy stone cross that stood at the edge of the building ledge behind him, the cloudy sky and rooftops… and him. A placid man, whose harsh angles hadn't changed in the slightest from when he was nothing more than a human. And yet hadn't everything changed since those days?

As much as anyone might wish, no matter how strong they were, they couldn't keep life from moving on in their absence.

Seventeen pulled at his gloves and, turning away from the image of himself mixed in with the stormy clouds, watched the lone figure storm through the naked city streets.

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><p>There were any number of hideouts that they could have taken Ellie to, but only one of them served double as a location for interrogations. He knew only of the gruesome tales that circled the place and had seen the face front of the shabby, otherwise nondescript home once in his life.<p>

That is, if it could truly be called a home.

Taji used his shoulder to open the door—an action that was not as well thought out as he had hoped. But the initial 'storm and destroy' sequence that he had played out in his head seemed less than pointless to see the empty living room space of the front room. Nonetheless, he crept forward, his feet muffled in the stained carpet, and snuck around the edge of the doorframe.

The other man saw him first—a gruff, stout guy with a shaved head—but Taji's gun was already up, his finger already on the trigger, and the sound of the gun shattered the silence as much as the man's chest. Taji hadn't recognized his face, but the image of it lingered in the back of his mind beside Arnold's and the cooling red stain spreading on the floor.

The shouts down the hall brought his attention back to the chaos he had started. He gunned down the first man that barreled through the adjoining door, but the second was upon him before he could recover, wresting the butt of the gun from his hands.

He kicked against his attacker, and the man suffered the assault of his limbs for little more than a moment as he shielded himself with his raised forearms. But what Taji had in heart he lacked in strength, and the guy finally tired of taking the hits. He took a fighting stance that told a story of a trained combatant, knocked aside Taji's sloppy hook, and caught him in the temple with a fist that landed him in the growing stain on the floor.

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><p>The ache behind his eyes made them sting as he struggled to open them against the burning low light. But the pain in his head was little compared to the steady ache in his wrists. Taji struggled to look up, but he could see no more than the silver glint of the wire that held his toes just off of the ground.<p>

Finally, he took a moment to take in his surroundings. The room he was in was dingy and windowless, occupied by not much more than a few rickety lights

And what remained of the gang, five in all, including James, the new head of their quickly dwindling crime syndicate.

They were immersed in a game of cards and liquor, and James was the first to catch sight of Taji return to consciousness. He set his hand face down on the table, as though he meant to pick up again later, and stood out of his seat.

"Taji." He nearly growled the name, and the yellow light caught his hazel eyes, giving them a sharp amber glare. James was taller than most of the other gang members, and by far cleaner. He ran a hand through his brown hair and crossed the cement floor to catch Taji's face before it could loll away. "This has been a long time in coming."

He groaned through the wad of cloth that had dried his tongue and the duct tape spread over his mouth. James pursed his lips, briefly, then reached up to yank the strip of silver tape free. Taji spat out the towel, and raised his eyes to meet James'.

"What are you talking about?" His words were slurred, his tongue thick with the taste of blood and grit.

"You. I _hate_ you," James hissed. His fingers tightened painfully on Taji's jaw before he released him, and he swung freely for a moment, the wire straining against the overhead pipes. "You can't survive in this world and think you can keep anything for yourself. Your parents thought they could do it and so do you."

There was a scream from the top of the stairs at the far side of the room, somewhere behind a door in a room that seemed a million years away. It distracted them only a moment. James reached behind him to pull out the gun—Arnold's gun; he recognized it by the 'AE' engraved in the side of the muzzle. He handled it almost lazily as he stalked back to the table.

"You think you're going to use me to prove a point?"

"No," James laughed, and his mouth widened into a mismatched gold and white smile. "I'm going to use _her_."

The man who dragged her down the stairs nearly held her off of the ground. Ellie struggled lamely in the tightly corded muscles of his arms, but as if out of instinct, her eyes found her brother across the room from her, and she fell still.

_Taji_. She mouthed the word. A single syllable; a plea; a question. Why, she would wonder, after all the lies that he had told her, was he still involved with these people? His lips parted, but he couldn't speak.

James turned to her, hefting the gun casually.

"No!" The word tore itself from Taji's lungs. He lunged against the prison that held him, but his toes brushed haplessly against the floor, and the wire bit deeper, cutting off circulation to his hands. A warm trickle of blood slipped down from beneath where the metal had broken the skin, staining it dark. "Please! Don't kill her! Let her go!"

"Why?" James snapped. He was young-looking for a man in his late twenties, but the rage that contorted his face made him look ages older. Just as quickly as it had come, it abated, and the smile was back. "Why?" he repeated, this time softer. "Besides, I'm not going to kill her. Not just yet."

His gaze turned from Taji to his sister, and the shadows fell over James' face, darkening his eyes. He gestured briefly and one of the men grabbed Ellie's other arm, and they pushed her face down against the table. The goose bumps on her pale skin stood out against the faded tank top and sleep pants she wore. As if she had reawakened, she renewed her struggling.

He kicked up his feet, and the force of his screams tore through his dry throat as he swung helplessly. One of the men who stood by grabbed a fistful of his shirt and used the butt of his gun to land a blow on his temple, and Taji's vision exploded into hot bursts of light.

"Shut up," the man snarled. Taji squeezed his eyes shut, but he could never block out the sounds of the room; the groan of the overhead pipes, the steady creak of the wooden card table, Ellie's screams that died slowly to soft sobs.

And then the crack of the gun that told him they were done.

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><p><em>Note:<em> I had a lot of turmoil over deciding whether or not I wanted to incorporate this part of the story. As it's an essential part of Taji's development, I finally decided that it would be necessary. Please leave a review to let me know what you thought of this chapter.

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><p>Kiddo626: Thank you for your thoughtful response! To answer your question, this story was not originally intended to be a romance, though I've had a small number of people suggest that I try my hand at making it one. I'm still not sure whether or not I will follow through with that idea, as it is a particularly dark story. I understand your question, and stereotypical as it is, I decided to use that scene more to emphasize something that Taji and even Seventeen haven't realized yet: that as much as Dr. Gero did to change him, he's still human, and it's the tiniest things that tell you that. The small bit of personalization that DBZ added to Seventeen as a character is his strong sense of self, and though it's taking a bit for me to find out how that feels for him and how to write it, that's something I want him to realize in the breadth of the story. To answer your question a little less roundabout, this is and isn't a romance. =3<p> 


	5. Those Without Fear

_Disclaimer: _I do not claim ownership over any of the characters created by the makers of Dragon Ball Z or Dragon Ball GT. I claim property of the OCs of the story only, who were made for the sole purpose of this work.

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><p><em>Set:<em> Some time after the Buu Saga. May take place later during GT saga as well.

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><p><strong>Chapter Five<strong>

Those Without Fear

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><p><em>What are you?<em>

He rested in the cement archway, his legs stretched out before him, his forearm leaning against the tattered hole in the knee of his jeans. The rain was back in full force, pattering noisily against the cement rooftops and shattered city streets, like the hammering of thousands of tiny feet on the ground all at once. He closed his eyes and he could see her, crossing her arms as a cold glower glimpsed over her pale face.

"_You're going to get yourself killed." She didn't sound upset as she said it, but there was a hint of irritation in her voice. He knew that she wanted to be the one to do it, but he lifted the gun in spite of that, sliding back the cartridge of ammunition._

"_Does that really matter?" His voice was quiet; the first words he had spoken to her in days. She flicked her blond hair out of her eyes and twisted on her heel, sauntering away like a mad cat left too long in its holding cage._

"_Just don't screw this one up."_

_The world twisted, the perception of it flipped. He could see the ceiling arching high over him, but he couldn't breathe beyond his shattered chest, the blood filling quickly in his lungs. A face leaned in over him, wrinkled with time, aged and grayed with years._

"_This one will do… Stabilize him and bring him to the lab." _

_Hands pressed against the bullet in his chest, compressing with bandages, holding him roughly together as the agony seared through his body. The door clattered open, slamming with the force of those entering and rebounding off of the wall. A girl's voice echoed shrilly, the rage tearing through her throat as she thrashed. He felt the same hands compacting the wound lift him, and as his head rolled to the side, the view spun again. The girl kicked and fought, held by a man with glazed eyes, her blond hair whipping back, the heat rising into her pale cheeks, the anger clear in her blue eyes._

"_Bring her, too. They'll both work for now."_

A gunshot shattered the stillness in the air and with it the images that crept back into his mind. He leaned forward from where he rested against the cement pillar, and slid off from his perch, making his way towards the door still busted from its hinges, shaking in the wind like a leaf rattling from a tree. Moments of placating silence ticked by as he made his way with leisurely ease, broken again by a second shot in the night.

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><p>"The Collectors want you alive, you know…" James kicked a discarded poker chip across the floor, flipping Arnold's handgun casually. "Me… I'd prefer you dead." He stalked over to Taji, the smell of alcohol hot on his breath as he leaned in close, stashing the heat in his back pocket, drawing out his switch blade, flicking it open with a loud snap.<p>

"But no one said you had to be in one piece. Cut him down." James returned to the table, and a glint of light caught his chaser as he tossed back the remnants of the whiskey in his cup: a cheap brand that would burn all the way down, the back of his mind noted dully. One of his goons lumbered forward, pulling out the wire cutters. They clicked together with a snap as the taut wire went slack.

Taji felt his weight drop back onto his feet. The ache in his wrists brought a wave of nausea into the pit of his stomach. He steadied himself and stared numbly at the darkened, bloody skin on his wrists, the blackening tips of his fingers and hands, the twisted wire that jutted up from the clipping, leaving a length of pointed metal.

"Bring him here."

The man stepped forward, reaching for him, and the reaction seemed instantaneous as Taji slammed his hands against his throat, shoving the pointed end of the barbed tip beneath the man's chin. He choked loudly as it pierced his throat, staggering back and clawing at his jaw as the dark red stain blossomed on the collar of his shirt.

The gun cracked again, and Taji felt his leg buckle beneath him. His knees slammed to the asphalt as pain blinded his senses and the smell of blood clogged his nose. Someone was shouting loudly as the world swam, and he could see the man on the ground, his body shaking, convulsing with the spasms of the thralls of death, a deep red pool growing beneath the torn hole in his neck.

And beside him, tossed in the corner like a used doll, her clothes dirtied like rags and her face frozen in horror, the blood matted at her temple where they had shot her; Ellie's vacant eyes stared at him accusingly, her jaw slack where she slumped.

The door slammed open. Another gunshot. He felt fingers curl in his hair, tightening as he was dragged upright. The glimpse of a blue coat and black hair as a man stepped down the cement stares into the room, toting a familiar rifle.

And then he was gone.

The man holding him jerked suddenly and Taji stumbled into the railing on the stairway, clutching at it to hold himself up. Numbing warmth slid down his leg, and as he turned to view the scene more clearly, it refused to respond to his will, until he was forced to slide down, sitting on the steps. He could see the back of Seventeen's coat as he knelt over something, lifting it easily and dragging it to the pipes that had held Taji before.

His vision swayed, losing focus, glimpsing only the image of James, struggling as the wires wrapped around his wrists bit deeper into his flesh where he hung from the rafters.

And then an empty darkness took over.

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><p><em>What are you?<em>

He stared up at the screen, watching the news reel flicker by. He had seen this footage countless times, and here he was, watching it again. A fireman held a young child out to a woman, who sobbed and blubbered, throwing her arms around him. He looked haggard, but in that moment he gleamed with a light that anyone could have seen.

Anyone but the Doctor, he reminded himself. Self-worth was not an important asset in his world; it wasn't something that his androids had been built to achieve or know.

"You're a hero!" She sobbed the words out into the fireman's shoulder, clutching onto him before the image cut out, returning to the reel of information as the news anchor rambled on with the same sense of boredom that accounted for a lifetime of her dwindling career.

"Please get your feet off of the bed, sir." The nurse who scurried into the room seemed overly cheerful with the way she made the request. His expression flattened as he slid his feet off of the bed and back into his shoes on the floor. "Thank you!" she piped in, heedless to the fact she received no verbal response or notice. She peeked at the monitors, checked the steadily beeping machines before stopping to beam at him. "Is there anything I can get you? Cup of coffee? Te-"

"No." She was taken aback by his blunt interjection; he could see it in the way her eyes widened slightly. But there was a coldly callous edge to his voice, and she didn't bother to argue, choosing instead to make a well-timed exit back out into the hallway.

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><p>The rain showered down over the city relentlessly, and the buildings and structures seemed to sag under the weight of it, like a tired animal that kept trudging on in spite of the circumstances. The edge of his coat brushed against the ground as he knelt, muddying and staining the blue cloth. The dirt caked in his fingernails and on his palms, but he didn't seem to notice it.<p>

Another nameless grave.

He wasn't even sure why he had sought to dig one. Perhaps it meant something to him, that the boy had lost his sister; that she had been unable to defend herself. He closed his eyes, and felt the water slide down his face and through his hair.

His breath fogged before him in a haze of a cloud, but his skin didn't seem to sense the chill in the air. Perhaps his body no longer took note, but he had felt cold for a lifetime, it seemed. Seventeen lifted the rock and set it at the head of the grave, and the ridges and sharp edges sank into the earth where it was placed.

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><p>His eyes strained open as the pulsing ache in his head hammered against his temples. There was a throbbing in his hands, an ache in his legs, a dryness in his throat from screams that had long since subsided.<p>

A man sat across from him, and for a moment he looked as unfamiliar as the rest of the room. Perhaps it was because of the latent peacefulness that had drifted onto his face, or the fact that he lay at rest in the chair beside the hospital bed.

His surroundings became more apparent to Taji: the flaking ivory paint on the walls with the mint green trim, the aging, yellowed machines and the crisp smell of detergent on linens. The beeping of the machinery focused his world, and he struggled upright, wincing as the pain shot through his hands.

Taji lifted the wad of bandages that his wrists disappeared into. The crooked lines of his fingers fell short on some, and he felt his eyes drifting between them, counting the number as he went. One, two, three… The rounded edge of his left hand stopped without the last two fingers. He glanced up, and caught a pair of cool blue eyes staring at him, watching with a removed interest where Seventeen reclined in the chair.

"You… why'd you come for me?" His voice was hoarse, ragged in his throat like the edge of a broken glass. Disappointment crossed the man's face; perhaps it wasn't the question he had expected or wanted to hear. He leaned forward, shifting the orange bandana around his neck, offering only a slight shrug.

"Be glad I did, or you'd have lost more than a hand." Taji's eyes flickered to his right hand, to the end of the stump hidden beneath the bandages. Anger built in his throat, tightening his chest as his voice raised, breaking with shrill hatred.

"I _did_ lose more than a hand, you bastard." The cold look that crossed Seventeen's face was chilling. He rose from the seat, his footsteps muffled on the yellowed linoleum tiles.

"People lose things," Seventeen said, his voice quiet, muffled into little more than a whisper against the beeping of the machinery.

"But not you," Taji nearly spat in response. He felt the anger building, tightening his chest. The pain pulsed in his leg and arms. "Then again… you're not even a person, are you?" The man's steps stopped, and he lingered in the doorway, his back to Taji, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat. He didn't turn around, didn't move but for the subtle roll of his shoulders, hunching forward slightly into his jacket.

"Teach me to do it. Teach me to be like you," Taji blurted. Seventeen shrugged his coat tighter around himself before disappearing around the frame of the door.

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><p><em>Note:<em> I wanted to apologize for the lack of chapters lately. I lost a bit of flow with the story, so I hope you guys still enjoy this chapter.


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